


One Too Many, or, Five Times John Was Patient and One Time He Was Not

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: After The Rain Comes The Sunshine [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Annoyed John Watson, Bad Days, Butterfly Effect, John is a Very Good Doctor, John-centric, M/M, Patient John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 08:13:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10895295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Every man has his breaking point.





	One Too Many, or, Five Times John Was Patient and One Time He Was Not

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh I feel bad for the guys when I write these, like, "How bad can I make your day before I fix it?" John's a pretty even kind of guy so I felt like a lot had to go wrong for him to get to that point. Hopefully it was worth it. Thanks again to Lavender_and_Vanilla for the idea for this series, I am very much enjoying it (sadism, much?).  
> <3

1.

John’s lips tightened in frustration, but he held his tongue. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to get into an argument here. Everyone was heading somewhere, and at this time of day with the weather as it was, it was hardly a surprise that the tube station was packed. There would always be pushy people who elbowed and nudged their way to the front, as though their personal need was greater than anybody else’s. John did have to get to work, of course, but he was not going to get into a fight over getting to the next train.

As he tried to ignore the crush of people shifting restlessly, John wondered what was bothering Sherlock. He’d been restless this morning, in a way that usually meant he wanted to ask something but wasn’t sure if he should. It had taken a long time for John to cement some social awareness into Sherlock beyond the vagaries of ‘not good?’ The down side was that Sherlock was often not quite sure where he stood, and it could take days for him to finally speak plainly to John. In the meantime, he was nervous and tense and more impossible than usual. John smiled indulgently, then the smile faded and he sighed.

The train was finally arriving, and John turned with the rest of the lemmings to watch it pull slowly into the station. The usual surge of people moved forward, and John stepped aside to allow a woman with a pusher ahead of him. He bent down to help her cross the gap, and as he stood up, the doors closed in his face. He looked up, assuming her thankful but apologetic expression would mollify him, but she had turned away, staring at her phone as though she expected reception down here in the bowels of the earth. That’s okay, he thought, pushing away the mild irritation, he’d just grab the next-

“Attention, passengers, due to a break down all trains will be cancelled until further notice. London Rail apologises for any inconvenience.”

“Shit.” John swore under his breath, then apologised to the scandalised looking man next to him. He would definitely be late now.

2.

After almost running the half hour it took him to get to the clinic, John was tired, thirsty and out of sorts. Of course there hadn’t been a cab, given all the people pouring out of the tube station, and he was too polite to snatch the next cab out of the hands of the couple in front of him, though he was tempted for a fleeting moment. He’d been forced to walk, then jog, then walk as he realised how unfit he was. Even the sleet, falling intermittently just hard enough to keep his feet wet, wasn’t incentive enough to ignore the cramp in his side and jog the whole way.

“I know, I’m sorry, trains cancelled.” John puffed at the receptionist, who was inundated with people, grumpy and ill, waiting to be seen. Desperate for a cup of tea, John nevertheless turned immediately to the next patient instead, unwrapping his scarf as he dredged up a smile for her.

“Mrs. Harris? Come through.”

An elderly lady followed him in, cutting off his apology as he continued to divest himself of his wet outer clothes.

“Honestly, you’d think people had nothing better to do,” she started, and John sighed internally. Mrs. Harris was a regular, always dying of something, though she had remarkable stamina when it came to complaining. John put on a sympathetic expression and listened to her berate him for his tardiness, for making her wait, for his wet shoes and the fact that nobody had offered her a cup of tea. By the time he could get a word in edgeways, his smile was rather forced.

“All the doctors are seeing people, Mrs. Harris, trying to make sure nobody has to wait too long.” He tried to explain, and she snorted derisively, quite well for someone with self-diagnosed terminal lung cancer, he thought irritably. John knew that she was lonely, and looking for someone to talk to, but he simply couldn’t give her more time today.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Harris?” John asked, when she paused for breath. He finally refilled her prescription for her arthritis medication and even called her a cab, then offered to make her a cup of tea while she waited, hoping to be able to make himself one as he did.

“What happened to seeing patients, Doctor?” she replied pointedly, taking a seat by the window to wait for her cab. John sighed. It was clearly going to be a long day.

3.

What with the weather generally and two doctors calling in sick, John barely had time to write up his notes between patients, let alone grab lunch or even that cup of tea. He was kept busy with the usual sniffles and self-diagnosed flu, his own long-suffering reiterations of why antibiotics would not help a cold or even the flu, several slips on icy ground and a mildly interesting case – a kid who had swallowed the only key to their security mailbox. His mother would not hold him still – he kept trying to empty John’s drawers all over the floor – and John had to explain several times that even if they could make him vomit, it was unlikely that the key would come up with it. After twenty long frustrating minutes, in which she questioned John’s qualifications, motivation and, he suspected, his parentage, she finally agreed to take him to the A & E for an X-ray to see what the best course of action would be.

John gave himself a break after that one, waiting room be damned. He made himself a cuppa and took out his phone, wondering what Sherlock was up to ( _what WAS bothering him?_ ), but the five missed calls distracted him immediately. Looking at his call register, he swore under his breath.

_Missed call, Harry_

_Missed call, Harry (no voicemail)_

_Missed call, Clara_

_Missed call, Clara (no voicemail)_

_Missed call, Clara (no voicemail)_

Thumbing quickly over to his texts, John read through the pile waiting for him. Experience told him to start with Clara.

_John -  Harry’s gone again. Call me ASAP. Clara_

There were others but he ignored them in favour of dialling Harry. She picked up on the first ring, sobbing as usual about her life and decisions and all the usual shit. John could almost say the words along with her at this point – once he had her on the line he knew she was safe enough, and any worry he had dissipated in favour of a sort of blunted irritation that this was taking up his time. John listened, knowing that interrupting would only make this part take longer. When she’d finally cried herself out, he told her to wait where she was (another five minutes while she figured that out and told John) and he’d arrange to get her home. Hanging up, John felt the usual mix of irritation, pity and frustration when dealing with a drunk Harry. He took a few deep breaths before dialling Clara.

4.

“Hi Clara, it’s me.” He started, before a hand smoothly took his phone away and a coldly cultured voice finished his conversation for him.

“Doctor Watson is unavailable for the foreseeable future.” Mycroft Holmes returned his phone, raising one eyebrow as though he could tell that John was deciding whether or not to punch him.

“If you’re going to do this, at least send a car to pick up my sister, would you?” John told him in as even a voice as he could manage. He gave Mycroft the address, texting Clara as Mycroft arranged for Harry to be collected. John would have to smooth things over there at some later time.

“What is it, Mycroft?” John asked, grateful at least that Mycroft would not require small talk or pleasantries. The man seemed completely at ease, John noted irritably, not to mention his shoes were dry.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware…” John ground his teeth as Mycroft started on about something to do with their family, something about a traditional dinner party. He hated when Mycroft started a conversation like that – he knew full well exactly what John was and was not aware of, and it only served to make John feel small to admit his ignorance.

“And how does this affect me?” John asked, not having listened to all of Mycroft’s pompous speech.

Mycroft sighed dramatically.

John ignored him.

Mycroft spoke again. “John, Sherlock will…”

John put up one hand, effectively stopping Mycroft’s sentence. “We’ve had this conversation before, Mycroft.” John reminded him with all the patience he can muster. “I’m not interested in talking about Sherlock unless he’s here.” Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but John stepped over and opened the door, effectively dismissing Mycroft. A small part of him was glad to see the annoyance on Mycroft’s face – God knew how often he provoked the same reaction in John – and John shut the door behind him.

A wave of exhaustion came over him, and he sank into his chair. This day was going forever. How was it only 2pm? A shiver of unease ran up John’s back at his refusal to talk to Mycroft – irritating though he could be, it was useful to know what was on Sherlock’s mind (Mycroft had never been wrong, that John knew). The flip side was that Sherlock could tell when John knew something courtesy of Mycroft, and it was largely the preservation of their relationship that had made John set ground rules for Mycroft. After the way this day was going, a heads up might have been a good thing, though.

5.

Several hours later, John called it a day. They’d all stayed later than usual, trying to make sure everyone was seen, and it was dark outside by now. John had texted Sherlock to no response, finally giving up and deciding to cook tonight instead of ordering in. He’d get a cab to the Tesco near Baker Street and walk home from there. The first luck of the day – a cab pulled up just as he walked out, and John hoped fervently that his luck was changing. He whipped through Tesco, picking up a bottle of wine to go with the pasta he was planning on making. Perhaps the alcohol would loosen Sherlock’s tongue and they could finally talk about whatever it was that was on his mind – and Mycroft’s. And now John’s, for all that he didn’t know what it was.

John was impatient to get home, now, after such a long day. The visit from Mycroft had piqued his interest in Sherlock’s dilemma, and thinking about nothing else on the ride over had set him to tapping his debit card against his leg. He wondered what could be affecting Sherlock, while also being something that Mycroft would concern himself with. If he’d listened to Mycroft he would know, but John made a point to do that as little as possible, so it really was his own fault.

Looking ahead in the line, John groaned inwardly. He had paid no attention to the people in line before him, and now he saw why this line was far shorter than the one other available register – two little old ladies were clearly stocking up for the winter – and they had the coupons to go with it. Each item had to be identified, the matching coupon found, a story told about the coupon. Only then could the item be scanned and the coupon placed to the side. They had two full trolleys and all the time in the world, John noted with a sinking heart.

One of them glanced over at him and gave him a tremulous smile. “We’ve been so busy with our coupons!” She told him proudly.

“I can see that,” he replied patiently.

“All this for only…”

“Thirty pounds!” the other chipped in.

“Thirty pounds!” the first woman repeated. John nodded, a tight smile on his face. The check-out girl could not have cared less how long they took, making no effort to hurry them along. Just as John decided to bail out to the other line, the check-out man placed his ‘no more customers thank you’ sign out, and John was trapped. He sighed.

 

...and 1 time he was impatient.

Finally. John struggled into the entranceway of Baker Street, his numb hands clutching the plastic grocery bags. He dropped the groceries on the floor, flexing his hands to restore blood flow. From the change in tempo of the violin music above, he could tell that Sherlock knew he was home. He waited a moment, then picked up the bags and trudged up the stairs, taking eight deep breaths as he did so (in, hold, out). By the time he’d reached the top the violin concerto was over. Sherlock lay on the sofa as though he had been there all day, not moving a muscle as John clumsily entered, bashing one bag against the table. God, I hope that’s not the eggs, he thought to himself.

“How was your day?” John asked, to no reply. He stopped and looked at Sherlock. It had been a long time since he’d given up expecting an answer from Sherlock, but today it rankled. “I saw your brother today.” John tried. Nothing. “Mycroft. The bane of your very existence, remember?” An eyebrow twitched, but Sherlock remained silent. John bit back a sarcastic addition to his question then started opening the bags, looking for the pasta but finding the remains of the eggs.

“Shit.” John muttered, staring at the gooey mess in the bottom of the bag. Suddenly he whirled on his heel, the irritation at the broken eggs putting him right at the edge of his self-control, and that was saying something. The cancelled trains, the weather, Mrs. Harris, Clara, Mycroft, the coupons. Each had taken a portion of his tolerance, and now he was teetering on the edge of impulsive action, which never ended well. Sherlock was just going to have to get on with it this time.

“What the hell is the matter with you, Sherlock?” John asked, folding his arms and standing strategically between both exits. Sherlock couldn’t beat him to either door. He’d have to stay and talk – and John had ways of making him talk. Right now, he’d opened his eyes and directed them to John, though his head had not moved.

“Pardon?” Sherlock asked.

John rolled his eyes. “You heard me, you git. I’ve had a bastard of a day and I don’t want to spend another minute wondering why you’re being so…” he waved his hand around to indicate Sherlock’s general demenour, then refolded his arms. “So tell me right now what the matter is or I’m calling your mother.”

Sherlock sprang up as though John had given him an electric shock. “What?”

John smirked, satisfied with the reaction his threat had provoked. This was his last defence against Sherlock, and he’d never had to use it before now. Desperate times and all that. “I will call your mother.” He enunciated very clearly, quite pleased to see real panic in Sherlock’s eyes. “I will call her and tell her how much you really eat, and how rude you really are to Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock clearly felt that this was a low blow, his eyes widening. “You wouldn’t!” he gasped. John’s grim face clearly said otherwise, because he went on, “But why, John?”

“Because, I know how this is going to go, Sherlock. You’ll be unbearable for a week, then right as I’m about to rat you out to Lestrade just to get you out of here, you’ll admit you don’t know why someone winked at you or something. I want to skip the whole week and get to it. So what is it?”

 As he listened, Sherlock’s face had changed from confusion to understanding to trepidation. John could see him wrestling with whatever it was, wondering if he should say something or risk the wrath of both John and his mother.

“Mycroft came to see me today.” Sherlock said finally, his voice low. John nodded, not taken in by the apparent change of manner. Sherlock was an excellent actor and he was not above deceiving John. “He wanted to remind me that it is our extended family dinner this weekend, and that I would be expected to bring someone. In the past I’ve just picked someone at random.” He hesitated. John felt the impatience rising in him again and he fought against it.

“Get on with it, Sherlock.” He pushed, wishing Sherlock would just get to the point. Why did he have to be so dramatic about everything?

“I wanted to ask you to come with me.” Sherlock finally blurted, adding in a rush, “I don’t know how socially acceptable that would be, both to you and to my family, and I didn’t know how to ask you…” John made a ‘shush’ motion with his hand – this was about to descend into the usual ‘forgive my insecurity and inability to express my emotions’ monologue. Boring, John thought peevishly.

“So ask me.” John told him flatly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He stood, brushed his suit down and said formally, “John, will you accompany me to my family dinner next week…”

“Of course I will.” John replied immediately, but Sherlock was not finished.

“…as my date?” Sherlock added, face flushing.

Realisation dawned on John. “Oh for goodness sake.” He said, his endurance finally giving out. Taking the three steps over to Sherlock, John grabbed his lapels and pressed their mouths together.

“If you wanted to kiss me all you had to do was ask, Sherlock.” John said. “I’m not going on some absurd weekend where we pretend to be a couple but end up holding hands and sleeping in the same bed and whatever.” He snorted derisively. “How ridiculous.”

Sherlock had the good grace to blush at John’s deduction. “So, you’d be interested in…I mean, not just this weekend…” Sherlock’s ability to make full sentences seemed to have gone awry, John noted with satisfaction. He raised his face to kiss Sherlock again, the gentle press of lips comforting and somehow very right. Sherlock’s hands slid along his back, and John sighed, feeling the tension from his day slip away.

“Yes, Sherlock,” John replied with all the patience in the world for his eccentric detective. “Not just this weekend.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the record: I personally love the 'pretend relationship for a case/family occasion' trope, but I saw the chance to poke some gentle fun at the whole idea. I think that this version of John would think it a bit ridiculous.


End file.
